


The Matronalia

by thedastardly



Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: ...but at what cost?, AU Brutus lives, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Referenced past non-con, mentions of Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger/Gaius Cassius Longinus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedastardly/pseuds/thedastardly
Summary: Marcus leans forward and presses his mouth to Antony’s, effectively shutting him up. He feels Antony hesitate, for the first time ever, in touching him. Something about it makes Marcus’s heart ache and he pulls away to breathe. “Touch me,” Marcus says and Antony does, fingers following the curve of his ribs and the slope of his hips.Antony conquered Gaul like this, too, Marcus thinks as he drifts to sleep.





	The Matronalia

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of vignettes I wrote detailing an AU where Brutus is taken as Mark Antony's slave for losing the battle of Phillipi (s2e6) and the subsequent blossoming romance between Brutus and Mark Antony post that defeat. I am an avid fan of the show but truthfully know very little outside of that realm about Roman life. Would Brutus be a slave if he lived? Probably not since he was both patrician and enemy of the state but what can you do?

Upon their return to Rome, Antony bypassed the villa that once belonged to Pompey, and then to him, and instead continued on to another home entirely. 

Cicero’s villa is just as lavish and beautiful as Marcus remembers. 

Antony deposits his slaves, his spoils and his belongings at the villa before he is summoned away by Octavian. He seems irritated as he leaves, murmuring about the boy as he goes, waving at the slaves trying to dress him on the go like flies buzzing around him. It only serves that Antony would give himself the most opulent villa he could find. Antony has always thought of himself as a man with exquisite taste and astonishing decision-making skills. Marcus wonders what that means for him, what that says about their new relationship to one another. No longer patricians; now master and slave. Old scrolls lost in a fire. 

Marcus wanders the villa as he remembers doing when he was younger--younger than he is now, anyway--and he examines the mosaics and murals, Cicero’s lares. He stands before a figure of a boy holding a cornucopia and feels like its eyes are following his every move.

Finally, Marcus finds his way into the back garden. 

Cicero had always maintained the foliage and plants with the utmost care. Now the trees and bushes are in varying states of overgrowth and dilapidation in the garden. Marcus feels the sun falling on his face between palm fronds and oak leaves, so he tilts his head down. A slave’s gait. When he steps onto the stone path, his downcast eyes fall immediately to a dark stain on the garden stones. He approaches it slowly, as if getting too close too quickly will awaken some shade from the stain that will haunt him for the rest of time.

Someone has tried desperately to scrub the blood from the stone, in vain. Marcus licks his lips as he approaches to the edge of the stain, the tips of his toes mere centimetres from the border of it. Marcus thinks he should feel something when he looks upon the spot, but instead he feels … nothing. Or, perhaps, pity? He cannot place it. Cicero always played the game too brash, and he got his comeuppance. He was a good friend, but Marcus cannot mourn a friend who was careless. He was not like Cassius, bold and brave and beautiful to the end--a physical and mental delight. Cassius, who died in battle. That, too, was the way Marcus tried to die, run through with swords like they had done to Caesar. 

Marcus feels his palms burning at the thought of Cassius; his lover’s skin going cold under his fingertips. Marcus had hoped their ashes would be mingled together like the Greeks, Achilles and Patroclus. Hands finding each other in the dark of Pluto’s realm. 

Marcus turns his gaze away from the stain, focusing on the peach tree instead, fruit ripe and threatening to fall. He pulls a peach from the branch and wipes it with his hand, fuzz tickling his skin, before he bites into it deeply, almost to the pit. Juice runs down his chin and onto the drab tunic he wears now, signifying that he is a slave to Mark Antony, a spoil of his conquest.

Marcus wonders if his mother knows he is alive, if she mourns him as dead? He does not dwell on this thought. He finishes the peach quickly, sticky with fruit juice and left with only a dark, porous pit. Gently, he sets the pit in the center of the dark stain on the garden stone path and leaves it there. 

Maybe something can grow from this pitiful place in the end.

*

Antony shoves Marcus onto his knees, hard, and Marcus flinches. He can already see, in his mind’s eye, the dark purple bruises that will be there in a day’s time. Bruises are the closest he will ever be to royal colors again. 

“Now mind your manners for Caesar,” Antony says as he walks the semi-circle around where Marcus is kneeling, stopping at his desk and moving parchment and scrolls around. 

Octavian practically shimmers when he enters the room, Marcus is so blinded by him. All fire-red hair and pale vernal skin. The youth doesn’t spare Marcus even a first glance let alone a second one. Instead he shakes arms with Antony and continues to ignore the figure kneeling right next to them. Marcus thinks of how his knees ache for so long he doesn’t even hear what business they discuss. He remembers clinging to every word of the politicians he ran with before--Cicero’s idle gossip, Cato’s deep well of wisdom--now he thinks of so little at all.

Finally, Antony reaches down and takes hold of him by his hair. Marcus wasn't expecting it and almost cries out from the surprise. He stifles himself though, more concerned about the whipping he’ll receive if he’s too mouthy. “Will you take my slave before you go? He’s very pliant and I promise I haven’t worn him out too much,” Antony’s smile is all teeth, but it is not kind. Marcus averts his eyes from the face of Octavian-- _ Caesar _ \--fearing looking directly at him will make everything too real.

“A gracious offer.” The disgust in Octavian’s voice is enough for Marcus to know he is still a detestable creature. He can feel the air displaced by Octavian’s cloak as he turns and leaves. 

Once the boy emperor is gone Antony clicks his tongue. “You’re not ugly, you know.”

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to look at Antony’s face but he does not see kindness. He watches as Antony thumbs a grape into his mouth and licks his lips. “Sister fucker,” Antony says and spits on the stone floor next to Marcus’s knee. Then, he waves his hand at Marcus. “Go away before I become bored of you.”

Marcus’s knees shake as he stands in the hall right outside the door.

*

Antony is quiet as Marcus washes his shoulders and neck. They are alone in the bath-room and Marcus wonders about what that means. Antony must think his hold on Marcus is so strong that he has nothing to fear from him. Antony had given him the strigil to clean his skin of sweat and dirt without a second thought.  _ And would I kill him? _ Marcus wonders as he cleans the other man’s tanned and oiled body. 

He does not wish to glance at his reflection in the water--he will only see a coward who would never harm Antony looking back. He imagines himself in thirty years, one of those slaves that would bleed out on the body of their master. 

After Marcus uses the blade on him, Antony beckons him into the bath, bidding him to undress and enter the warm water. Marcus thinks that Antony needs someone close to him at all times; that he will wither away without attention and contact. 

Once seated in the bath, Antony leans back against Marcus’s chest and soaks there for some time before finally encouraging Marcus to wash his back and shoulders with lye soap.

Then,

“Did you take it from Cassius? Or the other way ‘round?” Antony asks the question boredly, as if he is being forced to make conversation with his own slave. Marcus feels this question is a trap, so he hesitates in responding and Antony’s shoulders go tight under his lathered palms. His anger is always on a hair trigger.

“He fucked me,” Marcus admits, finally, and he feels the tense muscles relax in his hands. Marcus thinks back to the last time he was with Cassius, the memory like a salve for his soul when things become too much. Cassius kissing his mouth, his face, his neck; their bodies fitting together like Jupiter and Juno, honey nectar in each other’s mouths.

“I was going to slap you, you know,” Antony says quietly, almost thoughtfully, drawing Marcus out of the memories. “I know, Dominus.” Marcus feels his heartbeat quicken in his chest and he continues to rub soap and rose water over Antony’s body. 

“So answer me quickly next time,” Antony instructs and then leans back onto Marcus’s chest, rose water splashing up and over the two of them with his movements. “Wash my hair, Marcus, and then do yours as well. It’s Diana’s day.”

In bed that night Marcus can smell the rosewater and olive oil in his fingernails.

*

Marcus feels Antony’s hand touch his hair, gently. He lets his eyes fall closed as he works his jaw around Antony’s cock. He feels Antony’s fingers trail to the shell of his ear and to the sharp angle of his jaw, gently touching his face before moving up again and carding his fingers though Marcus’s hair. 

“Gonna come, Marcus,” he mumbles, and Marcus sighs through his nose, fingers carefully twisting in the fabric of his tunic. Antony’s hips jerk once, twice, as he comes down Marcus’s throat, his thumb pushing a bead of sweat off Marcus’s forehead and into his hair. Antony looks down at him with lust blown pupils before he slips his already softening dick out of the other man’s mouth. 

Antony swipes a thumb over Marcus’s swollen lips. “Swallow.”

Marcus works his throat and shows Antony his tongue but, in truth, he had not needed to be commanded.

*

Marcus hurries into the room when one of the other slaves tells him that Antony has called for him. He knows the halls of Cicero’s-- _ Antony’s _ \--villa well now, and can navigate his way to any room with ease. 

Antony is leaning against his desk and he looks at him boredly, face blank. Marcus feels his breath catch in his throat. “Dominus, I came… as quickly…” Marcus says, floundering. Once Antony decides you’ve done something to anger him it’s just a matter of how many lashes he will give you for it. Marcus licks his lips before resolutely closing his mouth. 

Antony looks away and then stands up and crosses the room to where Marcus is standing. Marcus braces himself, ready for the punishment that is undoubtedly coming. He hadn’t been punished in some time by Antony. In fact, they had been getting along quite nicely. But all things end, don’t they?

Antony stops short and looks at Marcus before looking away again. “You can no longer say I’ve never done anything for you, Junii.” He turns and points at something that is sitting on his desk--a golden urn. Marcus feels his heart jump into his throat. 

“Don’t tell the other slaves I’m giving gifts to you, Marcus. They’ll think you’re special,” Antony’s tongue lingers on the final word strangely, as if he himself does not believe what he says. Maybe Marcus is special. He slides a hand over Marcus’s stomach as he leaves the room. No further instructions. 

When Marcus picks the urn up it’s lighter than he imagined. They must not have been able to gather all of him up. No matter, Marcus thinks--it is enough. 

He treads quietly into the garden, finding his way behind the peach tree and into a secluded corner by the brick wall that surrounds the property. From where he is seated he sees a statue peeking through the branches. A female, her face slender and stoic. Marcus cannot be sure if it is Libertas or Juno. He looks away, turning his attention back to the golden urn in his hands. Gold is a luxury afforded to patricians. Marcus imagines Antony telling whatever dead worker that burned his body to place him into the beautiful vessel. Antony’s kindness comes in strange maneuvers. Marcus supposes this is how he has won so many things; strange maneuvers.

“I did not think you would make it back to Rome,” Marcus whispers to it and laughs, mirthlessly as tears threaten to fall. He supposes neither of them were meant to come home. 

He falls asleep in the shade of the plants, the urn nestled carefully at his head. He dreams of Cassius in odd ways: the arch of his foot, a curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck, his long fingers trailing through sweat at the small of Marcus’s back. When he wakes, it is nightfall and the stars are appearing in dusky pink-orange sky. Marcus leaves the urn where it is, shrouded in riotous overgrowth, safe in the furthest reaches of the garden where no one else goes. 

Marcus knows he will go to that place whenever he is able; feast days and moments at night when all are asleep and he can pad his way on stone floors in silence.

Marcus finds Antony at his dinner table when he re-enters the villa and he stops in his tracks when their eyes meet. “Thank you,” Marcus whispers, and Antony bites into a piece of fruit.

“He burned in death just as magnificently as he did in life,” Antony responds, looking at Marcus, eyes boring holes into the other man. His tone is sincere. This was a gift. Marcus doesn’t know what to make of something like this.

Marcus nods and swallows, holding his breath. He does not breathe again until he is in his own bed. When he closes his eyes he thinks of Mark Antony. The dusty arch of his foot, the sweat on his brow, the way his mouth feels slotting against his own. Marcus thinks of the last time they were together: Antony’s fingers on the spot below his belly button, inching lower with a look that at the time Marcus did not know, like a shower of gold through an open window. 

_ Oh _ , Marcus thinks. A gift.

* 

Marcus is surprised when Antony comes to his bed and asks for him. Still, he obediently follows his master through the halls of the villa and into the opulent bedroom that had once belonged to Cicero. Marcus hesitates at the threshold, and Antony looks at him for a moment, gauging his uncertainty. “I thought you might want to sleep in the bed tonight,” he finally says, and waves his hand wearily at the thing. In the past, Antony has simply told him to go to the bedroom and wait for him, patiently like a woman might. This behavior is new. 

Antony is constantly surprising Marcus now. He chews the inside of his cheek. “May I ask why?” Antony sucks his teeth, verging on annoyance. Hurriedly, Marcus moves to the other side of the bed and turns the covers down. 

“I’m sorry, Dominus,” Marcus corrects as he pulls his tunic over his head and scoots under the sheet. The bed is plush and soft, and Marcus thinks he might melt into it forever; he is impossibly exhausted and sore from his work. Antony follows suit in silence and Marcus stares at the ceiling. He opens his mouth once, and then shuts it before finally saying what he is thinking. “Do you … want to?”

Antony turns on his side. “If you want to.” Marcus is taken aback by the response. In the dimness of the candles burning around him he can see how soft Antony’s face is. Antony speaks again, quietly. “Tomorrow is Juno’s day. I thought that, being her namesake, a Junii should be given special treatment.”

Marcus can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him at Antony’s words. He feels like his mind is reeling,  _ what, what, what? _ “Is it funny to you?” Antony asks, scoffing, anger beginning to manifest on his features. 

Marcus leans forward and presses his mouth to Antony’s, effectively shutting him up. He feels Antony hesitate, for the first time ever, in touching him. Something about it makes Marcus’s heart ache and he pulls away to breathe. “Touch me,” Marcus says and Antony does, fingers following the curve of his ribs and the slope of his hips. 

Antony conquered Gaul like this, too, Marcus thinks as he drifts to sleep.

*

Antony is drunk and pats his thigh as Marcus refills his cup again from the wine decanter. 

A moment of weakness -

“Surely you are not motioning to me, Dominus?” Marcus smiles at him, trying to show that he can be playful too. 

Antony yanks Marcus by a slender wrist and into his lap, cackling as he does it. Marcus spills wine on both of them and he can already feel fear prickling sweat at his neck, but Antony does not seem angry. Instead, he presses a kiss against Marcus’s neck and jaw and reaches out to the spread of fruit and cheese and bread and offers him a fig.

Marcus's eyes search the other slaves in the room and none of them seem to even want to acknowledge them. The last of the party guests have long gone but Antony has never been one to let being alone stop him from drinking. “Marcus, eat it,” Antony commands and watches as Marcus bites into the fruit. “You’re all skin and bones.”

“You’re sotted,” Marcus says in return and finishes the fig in three more swift bites, fearful the other man is going to pull it away. Antony laughs and noses his way across Marcus’s jaw and runs his fingers through the other man’s hair again. Antony’s eyes are half-lidded, drunk and lust-blown and dark. He removes the wine decanter from Marcus’s hand and drops it on the stone floor, ignoring the sound of it shattering.

“Leave us,” he commands, and in seconds they are alone, every other slave gone like a whisper. Marcus feels excitement spreading in his stomach as Antony lifts him easily and deposits him onto the table, pushing him back and onto the food. Marcus hears more dishware clattering to the floor and breaking as Antony does this, but he remains pliant and easy. 

Antony offers him wine from a cup that was left behind by some guest and Marcus accepts it, drinking greedily and letting it run down his chin. Antony seems positively ecstatic at the sight. 

Marcus realizes this look is not in lust. It is a different creature entirely. 

“I want to fuck you, Junii,” Antony decides, and Marcus feels his cheeks coloring. But Antony makes no moves to flip him over or hike up his tunic. Marcus searches Antony’s face for something; he cannot identify what he’s looking for, like looking at an unfamiliar shore without a map.

“Let me?” Antony intones softly as he touches Marcus’s neck, down to his collarbone; poking out from the top of his tunic and jutting sharply through tanned skin. Marcus realizes he does not need to give Antony permission; in fact he could probably tell him no and Antony would simply let him leave, covered in fruit and wine and shaking like a newborn calf. 

Marcus reaches down and undoes Antony’s belt, helping him pull their clothes up. Their eyes do not leave one another’s as he does it. Even when Antony dips his fingers into the bread oil, he presses them inside Marcus gingerly, fingering him open with care and sincerity. They make love in earnest, warm cheese and ripe fruit pressed into their clothes and skin. When Antony kisses him Marcus can taste wine in both of their mouths, breath hot and drunk.

Antony climbs the table, knees planted firmly on either side of Marcus’s hips as they fuck. To Marcus, Antony feels like a dark cloud above him, following him wherever he moves. Antony feels like Jupiter’s melancholic plight of loving too deeply those who could he could not, should not. And by the end of it, they’re both nude and sticky with come and honey.

Antony tucks laurels behind his ears.


End file.
